250 THE LYRE THE LYRE. BY M. WARD. THERE was a Lyre, 't is said, that hung Bright with the tears, that morning wept, He rose, and o'er the trembling lyre, Waved lightly his soft azure wing; What touch such music could inspire! What harp such lays of joy could sing! The murmurs of the shaded rills, The birds, that sweetly warbled by, And the soft echo from the hills, Were heard not where that harp was nigh. When the last light of fading day Along the bosom of the west, In colors softly mingled lay, While night had darkened all the rest, Then, softer than that fading light, And sweeter than the lay, that rung THE LYRE. Wild through the silence of the night, That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed And not the poplar's foliage trembled, In earth and air it shone no more; To shield the harp of heavenly song! It loudly shrieked-but ah ! in vain- For every chord was torn in two. 251 252 TO A WILD DEER. It never thrilled with anguish more, Was dreadful-but it was the last. And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed, That lyre they could not wake or warm. THE END. |